


Blood

by Kangoo



Series: Destcember 2020 [3]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Bad coping mechanisms, M/M, Post-Black Garden, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27996123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: I don't know how to stay tender with this much blood in my mouth
Relationships: Uldren Sov/Jolyon Till the Rachis
Series: Destcember 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2037697
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Blood

**Author's Note:**

> for added flavor, here is my post garden uldren/jolyon playlist (still under construction): [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLImvm3CUViYvRyEDp7J67soZZw_sx2H1O) / [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/174ve4999acZPYa78myxJ1)
> 
> summary from hamlet

Every night Jolyon wakes up to sweat-drenched bedsheets, panting, terrified, heart beating its way up to his throat, with a mind filled with impossible shapes of growing things. For one panicked second there are vines in his lungs and seeds sprouting from the pores of his skin and flowers sharp as knives in his mouth in place of teeth. 

Then, in the silence, memories of the Garden die. They rot in his mind, leaving an afterimage of horror he can’t put into words and the bitter taste of fear in the back of his throat. Nothing more.

Part of him was buried there, he thinks, and that’s what he’s feeling. The dirt and the sky and the dark, the roots overtaking his veins. Each night he is buried and the Garden eats him the way growing life eats the dead until he wakes up. Alive and uprooted. 

Part of him will always feed the Garden.

He can’t sleep after dreaming. He knows from experience. Instead he heads for the Crows’ training room. If he can’t have peace in his own mind he’ll simply exhaust himself past the point of thoughts. Then, he’ll sleep.

To his surprise the room is not empty. All the Crows awake at this hour should be out on patrol or assignments.

Their master, of course, does not abide by the same rules.

“Uldren,” he greets, careful.

The prince pounds the sandbag for a minute more, filling the silence with the rattling of the chain keeping it hanging from the ceiling. Eventually he stops, turns, gives Jolyon an unreadable glance. No, stares right through him.

Jolyon remembers the way he looked at him a mere few days ago — bright, manic eyes, voice nearly breaking in excitement at the thought of the Garden. He didn’t seem any more alive than he does now, but he still considered Jolyon to be at his side. Buried along with him. Now it’s like there’s six feet of dirt separating them. Separating Uldren from everyone else.

They size each other up for one long, awkward moment. Jolyon considers being a coward. He could walk out right now, go to the range instead. It’s not as good at shutting his brain off after nightmares and the memories anchored there are sharper than they are sweet — everything related to Uldren is, lately. But it would be easier than standing six feet apart from his partner and seeing a stranger in his place.

“Fight with me,” the stranger says.

Against his better judgement, Jolyon replies, “Okay.”

Jolyon gets ready the way he’s done uncountable times before, listens to Uldren do the same. The silence isn’t as comfortable as it used to be but it’s familiar, and familiar is good. 

They’ve resolved so many of their quarrels like this — to the first blood. He can’t help but hope this will be another of those times.

The fight starts the way it always does: circling one another, waiting for an opening they know won’t come. Uldren is always the first to break form, jump across the ring. This time is no different.

His fist flies at Jolyon’s face. He misses by an inch when Jolyon throws himself to the side, retaliates with a high kick that only catches the edge of Uldren’s shirt. They dance around each other — and it _is_ a dance. Hands brushing skin, nearly touching, nearly tender. Their quickened breaths, the shuffle of their feet on the floor, the dull thud of flesh hitting flesh when one of them blocks a hit. This is art. This is love as Jolyon knows it, as he’s learned to expect it. The silent agreement to draw it out, to trust the absence of a knife, to make it a game rather than a struggle.

For one breathless, wonderful second, he is in love and loved back. For one terrible, beautiful second, Uldren is himself again.

Not a second more.

The elbow to his face takes Jolyon by surprise, and his head snaps back with an audible _crack_ from either his neck or his nose. Blood gushes down his face immediately, warm and wet, and he coughs and splutters before he remembers to breathe through his mouth and not drown in it. 

Uldren takes advantage of his distraction and sweeps his feet from under him. Jolyon crashes to the floor, still dizzy from the hit. It’s only sheer instinct that makes his hand rise in time to block a last blow. He catches Uldren’s wrist and holds him there, hand suspended between them.

It would be easy to break out of the hold. Easy and unnecessary. Jolyon has already given in.

He thinks Uldren might continue, if only because he’s always been a dirty cheater. But his eyes glance to the blood still dripping down Jolyon’s chin and there’s a spark there. Recognition. As if he’s seeing Jolyon for the first time tonight. 

He cracks a smile.

“First blood,” he says, whisper-soft. “Want to go again?”

Tomorrow, Jolyon will see the bruises, the dried blood, and see Uldren in them — as clear as the shape of his fingertips imprinted in Jolyon’s skin. He’ll think it through and know it to be unwise, and self-destructive, and stupid. A fool’s errand to try and reach comfort through violence.

Tonight he smiles back. Once again he says, “Okay.”

Uldren offers him a hand to help him up and he takes it, wonders at the warmth seeping through his skin at the contact. He almost expected him to feel cold. How could he, though? There’s always been a fire inside of Uldren, devouring him.

Tomorrow he’ll vow to avoid the training room at night, find a better coping mechanism for his insomnia. Tonight, he licks the blood from his lips and finds comfort in its familiarity.

**Author's Note:**

> come haunt me on [tumblr](https://youngster-monster.tumblr.com/)


End file.
